


REAL

by SorrowsFlower



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Catharsis, Character Death, F/M, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, John Watson - Freeform, Post-Episode: s04e01 The Six Thatchers, Rosie Watson - Freeform, The Six Thatchers Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-09
Updated: 2017-02-09
Packaged: 2018-09-23 01:23:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9634502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SorrowsFlower/pseuds/SorrowsFlower
Summary: He is not Sherlock Holmes.Sherlock Holmes had a friend: a John Watson to keep him right. Sherlock Holmes had a friend who was a sister: Mary. But Mary is ashes now.This man walking around London, friendless and alone, is not Sherlock Holmes.





	

He is not Sherlock Holmes when he leaves John and Mary’s house –-

No. Not John and Mary’s.

Just John’s now.

He thought thinking those words would somehow bring the truth home, ingrain it somehow into his mind — his traitorous mind whose need to analyze everything and prove to everyone that he was clever had led to Mary’s —

He stops. This shell that is not Sherlock Holmes stops that line of thought because it still is not _real_ … not in his mind, not in real life.

In all his years as a consulting detective, all the people he has met who have supposedly died have all turned out to be alive in some way, working their machinations and plans from beyond the grave, whether literal or metaphorical.

A large part of him wishes that were true with Mary. That she is not dead.

That he had not been the cause of her demise.

He is not Sherlock Holmes right now. Sherlock Holmes had a friend: a John Watson to keep him right. This man walking around London, friendless and alone, is not Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock Holmes had a friend who was a sister: Mary. But Mary is ashes now, the only incarnations of her left are that videotape and Rosie, his goddaughter whom he is not even allowed to see.

This man who walks the streets of London is not Sherlock Holmes.

He feels an enormous hollowness in his chest, one that begins to grow, quickly and surely.

He has never felt this before – he has felt pain and sorrow and anguish and despair, and a whole myriad of emotions since this journey started. But never this… never this black hole that threatens to engulf his entire body from his chest outward.

Before he can think twice about it, he redirects his steps.

Something urges him to do it, and he doesn’t question it. The rapidly widening black hole creeping, growing ever bigger, and it spurs his actions.

For once, he neglects any preparations, no counter-measures.

He boards a plane and does not look back.

He sits by the window, looking out into the darkness that mirrors the one inside him. The hole in his chest becomes bigger and he closes his eyes. 

For the first time, he doesn’t go into his mind palace, because he’s afraid of what he might find in there – Mary’s blood staining the marble floors, the look in her eyes when she spoke to him for the last time, her solid voice commanding him to “save John Watson.” The very same John Watson who had looked at him with burning hatred in his eyes.

He resists the pull of his mind palace and concentrates on closing the gaping hole in his chest, much bigger and much more relentless than the bullet hole Mary had left there. He gropes in the darkness for the edges of the black hole and pulls to seal it shut, but each time he does, one irregular edge slips out of his grasp and rips, tearing more and more of him out.

It takes effort, and by the time the flight attendant nudges his shoulder lightly to tell him they have landed, he is breathing heavily and sweating profusely. The flight attendant looks at him with some concern, but he brushes her away.

He doesn’t know how, but he manages to make it out of the airport and into a cab. He gives the driver the address and snaps at him to drive. He takes a deep breath through his nose and leans his head back, but it doesn’t help.

The traffic is horrendous as it usually is during rush hour and he barely makes it. His heart is pounding so loud he’s amazed even the cabbie can’t hear it, and there is a rushing sound in his ears.

Finally, the cab stops and he stumbles out. He has enough mental faculties left to know that he won’t get through the doorman in the state he’s in, so he uses a back door and begins climbing the stairs.

He’s out of breath by the time he gets to the right floor, and it’s not because he’s winded. He’s climbed much taller buildings, even jumped off one, but his stamina and physical abilities have never failed him this much.

He makes an attempt to straighten his appearance before knocking on the door, but he knows it’s pointless.

The second she opens the door and sees the mess of a man that was once Sherlock Holmes, she knows.

“I –” he struggles to clear his throat, but the black hole is bigger now and it has reached his larynx. “I…”

Wordlessly, the Woman opens the door wider so that he can stumble through.

And all at once, it hits him.

It’s real. All of it.

Mary…

John…

Norbury…

Everything. All of it rushes in, filling the black hole like a tidal wave. But instead of easing the emptiness, it chokes him. It’s as if he’s back in the aquarium again, but this time, he’s in the water and he’s suddenly drowning.

He collapses on her hardwood floor, gasping for breath. His eyes sting and his cheeks are wet, and his chest is heaving. He realizes he’s sobbing.

She’s grasped his forearms to break his fall, but she’s smaller than him and without realizing it, he’s managed to tug her down to a kneeling position in front of him. He holds onto her arms, as if she is a life preserver that will keep him from drowning.

He can feel her fingers pushing away strands of damp hair away from his face, wiping the sweat from his brow and the tears from his cheeks. Vaguely, he can hear her commanding voice through the tidal wave and he focuses on it.

“Look at me…” He can see her face, calm and serene through the stinging tears. Her voice demands compliance, and even through this tidal wave, he cannot deny her. “Sherlock, look at me.”

Her glacial eyes come into focus, and he can feel her fingers settle on either side of his face. “Breathe, Sherlock.”

He does and it calms him a little. He can feel her move closer, kneeling with one leg on either side of his hips. Had it been any other time with Irene Adler and had he been Sherlock Holmes at that moment, he would have enjoyed the position. This time, there is nothing sexual or remotely enjoyable about it.

An anguished moan resonates from his chest and builds before escaping his parted lips. It comes from deep within, from a place he has buried a long time ago. He muffles the sound into her hair, into her shoulder – as if she who causes pain can somehow relieve him of it.

He wants to tell her. Everything.

What he’s done. What he’s caused. What he’s failed to do. How he broke the only vow he’s ever made in his life. How he’s destroyed his whole life. How he had played The Game without realizing that it wasn’t a game at all.

Not anymore.

He can’t. The words break in his throat, and all he can do is moan them into her shoulder, sobbing like a pathetic child.

They never make it to the bed.

His hands dig into her hips, her hands lose themselves in his hair, and they stay that way without moving all through the night.

When he returns to London several days later, he is Sherlock Holmes again.

 

* * *

 

 From my [tumblr](http://sorrowsflower.tumblr.com/search/REAL+adlock+ficlet):

 

_When he returns to London several days later, he is Sherlock Holmes again._

**Author's Note:**

> Mary Morstan-Watson. Liar. Assassin. Friend. Wife. Mother. One of the best female characters in the whole damned show. She deserved better. And I'm fucking sick of haters screaming otherwise.
> 
> And yes, I made it Adlock. Because there's only one other person in the world with whom Sherlock can be himself. Fight me.
> 
> (In case you can't tell, I'm still pissed about this development, and I have not come to terms with it yet)


End file.
